


If We Let Them

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [7]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Azzan's Got It Bad, Bonding, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Act I, Pre-Act II, Satinalia, Slavery, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: One and a half years after Act I, another Satinalia has arrived. One elf, however, is unwilling to join the festivities.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I hope everyone has a wonderful Satinalia - and whatever holiday you may celebrate here on earth, as well.

Two Satinalias had come and gone since Fenris had entered Azzan’s life, and he was the only friend he had who refused to accept the idea of gifts.

Azzan didn’t know if he could understand, though he tried. He knew it was only in more pious regions that gifts were exchanged on the first day of Umbralis, but though few followed the tradition, even fewer denied him the opportunity to present his gift to them. As Isabela said their first Satinalia in his home, “only a fool turns down a free gift.” Only, Fenris was no fool. So that left… something else. Perhaps, he thought, Fenris did not believe. From what he’d seen in his past, the man had every reason not to. Or perhaps he just didn’t wish to receive a gift from Hawke.

That, he thought, was a little selfish, to think it all revolved around him. So he gathered up every ounce of courage and went to Fenris’ place to ask.

The doors opened. They always did; Fenris never seemed to see a reason in locking them. Azzan supposed any poor fool hoping to rob some riches would be coming out empty-handed, even if they did manage to get past Fenris. And anyone hunting Fenris wouldn’t be deterred by locks. But still, it always made Azzan itch; he always checked every room before heading up to Fenris’ bedroom, where almost certainly the elf would be. This time, however, he was in one of the side rooms, the large dining hall. Fenris swiveled to look at him, lyrium veins flaring bright, until he took in who stood in the doorway and growled. “What do you want, Hawke?”

Azzan opened his mouth to answer – or perhaps to stutter something unintelligible – until he noticed Fenris going through some old boxes. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said instead, and leaned slightly back from the door. “Would you rather be alone?”

Something in Fenris’ expression flickered – his eyelids flashed; the corner of his mouth twisted. He looked down, back toward the boxes, toward whatever he was searching for. “No.”

Slowly, Azzan stepped inside. “Would you like some help, or just company?”

Fenris looked up at him, then back down at the boxes. “You might as well make yourself useful.”

The room hadn’t been in the best of states to begin with; the dining table had been one of few pieces of furniture left standings after their battle through the mansion over a year and a half ago; a single chair had also survived, thrown now against a corner of the wall and left to sit on its side amidst a growing pile of letters and small, ornate chests. Meant to hold trinkets. “What are we looking for?” he asked. He had to shuffle around some of the strewn papers – garbage, he could only assume, though he kept them more or less in their piles in case he was wrong – in order to find a place to sit. He had to do so with his legs crossed tightly beneath him or else knock over the teetering pile of boxes by his left knee.

Fenris paused again, his mouth flickering back and forth between snarl and grimace, snarl and grimace. “A small box. It should have a picture of a wolf.”

Well. Azzan very carefully kept his eyes from Fenris’ markings when he nodded. “All right.”

They worked silently as time passed, Hawke skimming the papers while Fenris grabbed them and threw them over his shoulder, letting them fall where they may. After a while, Azzan started to realize why. They were mostly financial pieces, and they weren’t pretty ones. The most acceptable sales were of houndflesh and Imperium Chantry works. The worst was the trade of people.

After a while, Azzan turned to just searching through the piles of paper for the small chests.

There were a few per box, with only six boxes left between the two of them after Fenris’ previous work. He found a box with cats playing, one with a tree, another showing the constellation _Silentir_. He set them aside gently, just in case the item Fenris searched for had been moved to a different box. By the last box, he had eight chests, none depicting a wolf. One did, however, show a kennel of dogs.

The papers sat in shaky white mountains, looking about ready to rockslide at any moment. Fenris stared into the bottom of his box, his face completely empty of emotion.

“I’m sorry, Fenris,” he said, not even knowing what he was apologizing for. He placed a protective hand on the few chests he had found and leaned forward. “May I ask what we were looking for?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, and his words, the tone of his voice, sparked a memory. Azzan thought back to when he and Fenris had first met. When Fenris had asked what was in the chest, and Hawke had said it had been empty. It had been something to do with lyrium, and Fenris had said it didn’t matter then, too. But for him to look, to walk willingly into a trap as he had when he’d hired Hawke, it had to have mattered a great deal.

 _Something to do with lyrium_. Azzan eyed Fenris’ markings for the first time. He let his gaze slide over to the chests beside him. “Is there a chance it might be in one of these? They don’t have a wolf on them, but… we could try.”

“These are likely enchanted items,” Fenris said, shaking his head. “They’re all dangerous if used inappropriately. Don’t touch them.”

That was a yes, then. Fenris indeed was desperate enough to search, even though the likelihood was low. Azzan did as told, carefully opening each chest and showing the contents, still cradled in their homes, to Fenris. There was no hope in the elf’s eyes, and as Hawke showed him the last item, a strange pendant in the shape of a sun, even that empty expression lost some of its edge. “I take it none of these were what you were looking for.”

“It was a long shot, in any case,” Fenris said, and turned away. His gaze drifted out over the long, empty room, the table that sat sad and alone away from the empty fireplace, the brick walls with banners Fenris had torn down long ago. “Thank you for helping me search.”

Hawke looked over the disaster that was left of the boxes’ contents. The papers had somehow managed to spread out from where they sat all the way to the other end of the dining table several feet away. Likely through Fenris’ less-than-orderly approach. “It wasn’t a problem. Is there any reason you’re looking now?”

“These were hidden, squirreled away in an alcove beside the fireplace.” Fenris waved a tired hand in indication, and Azzan found himself noticing, for the first time in an hour, the lack of armor on Fenris’ arms. His fingers were free of the sharp spikes that usually adorned them. It almost made him miss what Fenris was pointing at, but when he turned his head to look, he saw an opening in the stone, one that had likely opened up at the press of some lever. It was a sensible place to hide a secret niche – in the kitchen, where one wouldn’t expect illicit information to be stored, and safely kept right next to a fireplace, where the papers could be destroyed in a hurry.

The fireplace, Azzan noted, looked cleaner, too. For once, he hadn’t been responsible for it. He turned to Fenris. “You hoped it might have information on what you were searching for before. The thing you had Anso hire me for.”

Fenris’ lips thinned. “Yes.”

He didn’t press further. “I’ll clean this up,” he said, gesturing toward the mess around them. Fenris nodded absently and stood, then looked down at him with a frown. “What did you come here for?”

Azzan smiled. “To see if you wanted to come to our Satinalia festival.”

Fenris sighed and rolled his eyes. “No.”

Right. He should have seen that one coming. Not wanting to come to the Satinalia festival certainly ruled out any desire for gifts, as well, then. “All right. The offer still stands, however. Whenever you may like.” He looked around. It wouldn’t take too long to get rid of all this. A quick bit of fire in the hearth, and the papers would be… he tilted his head and picked up one of the papers. His eyes widened.

Well, well.

“Are you sure you’re all right with cleaning?” Fenris asked.

“Hm?” Azzan asked, his gaze skimming over the page. “Oh. Yes. Definitely.” He wouldn’t be burning these, after all.

He turned back to the small piles of boxes. “What do you want done with the items?”

“Destroy them,” Fenris said, glaring at the boxes as he did with anything of magic. The man turned on his heel and left, likely to sit upstairs snarling at the world for taking his chance at whatever it was he searched for. Though Azzan feared he knew.

Enchanted items needed more to destroy them than just fire. They needed to be broken apart magically, as well. There weren’t many safe ways of going about it. He could use his own magic, battle it out. That usually had pretty dire consequences; enchantments were not to be worked by someone with magic. It would be much safer to take them back to his home and have Sandal take a look at them.

So that was settled. Azzan was going to repack all of the – he counted – nineteen boxes they’d gone through and bring them all back with him. He sighed. It would take a few trips.

If that was the case, he thought, then he might as well get started.

* * *

“Ooh,” Sandal said, picking up a necklace of silverite and lazurite like it wasn’t glowing an eerie indigo. “Enchantment.”

“Yes,” Azzan said, gesturing once more toward the necklace, now held up to Sandal’s nose, and the other containers remaining. “All of them likely had something enchanted inside of them. We want them all destroyed, if possible. Can you do that?”

“Ah! Now, ser,” Bodahn said, stepping quickly between him and Sandal, “are you certain that’s what you want? Those might be very useful down the road. Or valuable.”

Hawke shook his head. “They aren’t mine. They were confiscated by a friend of mine from a slaver. He wants them destroyed, and frankly, considering what they were likely used for, I want them destroyed, as well. Just in case.”

Sandal turned to his father. “Enchantment?”

Bodahn made an unhappy sound, his gaze moving from Azzan to the necklace and back. His lips flapped for a moment, his hands reached up as if to grab the necklace from his son’s fingers… and then fell back to his sides. He sighed. “I understand. It’s likely a wise decision. And we owe you for your help in the Deep Roads. I won’t repay what you did by arguing here.” The old dwarf nodded. “All right. Do what you have to do.” He clapped his son on the back of his shoulder. “Go on, son. Get rid of them for the man.”

Azzan smiled. “Thank you. Both of you.”

He looked over to the boxes, once more filled to the brim. He’d placed them by the entrance to the library. One sat open, the one he’d put the chests in. The rest sat closed, waiting for him to go through them.

In less than a week, it would be Satinalia. He still had to decorate. There wasn’t much to do – a few masks on the walls, along with his mother’s and his own, the bells of the fool’s hat wrapped around the stairwell, beads and softwood for the fire. They would collect the food in a couple of days to prepare for the feast. He already had the gifts stocked up in the closet in his room – though one gift would once again not meet its recipient.

He had time to at least go through the first box or so.

“Keep me informed, Sandal, Bodahn,” he said, and moved to the pile of boxes. Bodahn called an affirmation as he wrapped his hands around the bottom of one of the boxes and hefted it up. Paper in a large pile was much heavier than one would expect. Still, he gritted his teeth, grunted a bit, and carried it into the library by the desk. After setting it down, he cleared the desk of all papers and settled down in the chair. A quick thought had the candle burning softly beside him. He picked out the first piece of paper and got to work.

* * *

“Hawke, it is the day before Satinalia. Why on earth are you asking us to go out on the town on the eve of the festival? Isn’t everyone too busy getting drunk tonight?”

Varric’s complaints fell mostly on deaf ears. Of all his friends, Varric had been the first to volunteer for the work. Likely because the dwarf had already admitted to wanting to write a story about Azzan’s escapades during the holiday. Varric might have also hinted that he would be making a story out of this. The second to offer his services had been Anders, who had said he “needed to get out.” He hadn’t offered any more information, and Azzan could only imagine Anders was upset about the slowly increasing hostility against mages.

The last wasn’t one he waited to volunteer, but one Azzan asked specifically to join him: Fenris. The man seemed unperturbed at being summoned just before the holiday. In fact, he seemed almost bored with the entire thing. While Anders and Varric gawked around his house as they prepared to move out, Fenris leaned against the foyer wall and ignored the festive decorations and the inane ooh’s and aah’s of their friends. Azzan moved to stand with him, letting the others exclaim over the masks adorning the walls and the bright red ribbon draped along the mantle and the upper walls. Fenris watched him approach.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, and Fenris just looked away. “Not about calling you out during the holidays – I’m getting the feeling you don’t really observe them.”

“There were no holidays for slaves,” Fenris said, confirming Azzan’s suspicions.

“But there are holidays for free men.”

The look Fenris gave him was almost one of shock. Hawke might as well have said Fenris could float to the moon. Unsurprisingly, Fenris still struggled with the concept of being free.

“All right, so you’re clearly still intending to celebrate Satinalia,” Varric said, coming back into the foyer, “so what’s this all about?”

Azzan gestured to Fenris, who looked even more startled to be singled out. “It’s my fault, obviously, but I… took some papers I found in Fenris’ home.” He winced; it was not the kindest way to put it. But while he expected anger or betrayal, Fenris just looked confused. He continued. “Most of it was useless – money transfers, but no names or addresses, only dates. But a couple of them had more.”

Fenris stiffened.

Azzan smiled at him. “Thanks to you, I know where a few slavers can be found. Still want to come?”

Fenris’ eyes flashed. “You could find such information in all that?”

“Thank goodness Hawke took them, then, huh?” Anders said, not even waiting for them to get outside before starting a squabble. Azzan rolled his eyes.

“Don’t start, Anders. It’s enough that we can track these men down and stop them from destroying more innocents’ lives.”

Anders huffed, but he let it go. “Fine. In any case, do you know who was made to be the town fool tomorrow?”

“Oh,” Varric chuckled, “do I.”

The banter picked up joviality from there, and Hawke led them all out of the estate, shouting a quick farewell to his mother before closing the door behind them. He turned to Fenris as he did. “I’m sorry I did all this without your permission. I didn’t know how you would feel about me taking all this from the mansion. I just didn’t want to lose the information. It was sneaky, however–”

“Don’t worry about it, Hawke.” Fenris’ gaze went somewhere beyond the entrance to the estate. Beyond even Hightown, to somewhere Azzan couldn’t follow. “I’m glad the search didn’t come to nothing, at least.” His gaze turned sharp. “And the items?”

“Destroyed,” Azzan said with a nod. “I asked Sandal to do it, to make sure nothing bad happened as some sort of side effect.” Fenris seemed to accept the explanation, because his gaze went back out over the bustling city street. No matter how people pretended the eve of a holiday was nearly as important as the day itself, there was never a shortage of people frantically readying themselves for it as if they forgot it came the same day every year.

The city itself, however, had managed to get its decorations up weeks in advance (something that still hadn’t managed to get most citizens motivated to do their own, somehow), and now every wall not privately owned was bedecked in red ribbon or puppets with stranger and stranger masks. The Mask of the Fool, decorated in white and red with a bulbous head, hung in front of the Keep, ready for the man or woman – man, according to Varric – who would be crowned tomorrow and made Temporary Viscount for the day. One of Aveline’s guards stood watch beside the pedestal.

Hawke led the way, surprising no one when his steps turned to Darktown. Anders made a noisy sigh, mumbling under his breath about working next to slavers, though Azzan feared half the reason for his complaints were simply due to having to compete with those taken as slaves for Most Oppressed People in Kirkwall. He also hated that the thought even crossed his mind.

Fenris seemed to take delight in meeting with their first target, who looked at the elf as if he’d struck gold. “Well, well, ser,” the man said, clasping his hands together and stepping past the small group of men around him to look Fenris up and down. A moment later, he did the same to Azzan himself, then Anders. “What brings you down into this humble alley?”

Azzan could hear Fenris shifting his balance. Preparing to strike.

The ‘alley’ wasn’t truly that; it was more a blocked-out hole in the back of Darktown, surrounded by broken crates and loose pebbles kicked up from the hard-packed earth beneath their feet. The only people down in this small hollow were this man and his fellows, each beginning to stand as he continued moving forward.

Azzan stood his ground. “Are you Salazar Praebita?”

“I am.” The man’s smile widened. “You came looking for me, then.” The man took another look at Fenris, his gaze catching on the lyrium as the tattoos started to glow.

“I did.” And he grabbed his staff and froze the man in place.

Fenris jumped literally into the fray, Praebita’s men slow to respond in their shock. With Praebita trapped in place, it took only a single swipe for Fenris’ long blade to sever the man’s head from his body. His men shouted, raising their swords more on instinct than in preparation, turning themselves from bystanders to enemies - though Azzan doubted Fenris would have let any of them live. And he didn’t; Fenris cut a swath through the first wave of attackers. The rest of them followed suit. Azzan called upon Faith's aura as Varric caught a man in his foot, quickly enough that he kept the man from charging at Fenris like the others. Azzan backed up a few steps until he stood beside Anders. The mage beside him glowed unnaturally, just like Fenris. Azzan’s own magic, though far less aggressive, glowed blue like theirs, matching the color almost uniformly.

With Anders throwing fireballs and Fenris weaving in and out of the enemies like a dancer, Azzan felt almost superfluous in the battle. Even Varric was needed more than him, raising his arrows to add his volley to Anders’. The most Azzan had to do was heal everyone after the battle. Fenris even grinned at him when he did. “Well done, Hawke,” he said, and Azzan’s heart took flight.

There were three others he’d managed to find, and they spent the entire day clearing Darktown out. Fenris’ smile flitted between feral and triumphant, but it rarely abated throughout the day. It was more than Azzan had ever seen before. Varric joked about it, said Fenris’ face might crack. Anders’ jokes, a bit more cutting, said perhaps he already had. Azzan kept quiet, his gaze caught on the flash of teeth, the stretch of lips, whenever he looked Fenris’ way.

A year ago, he’d feared falling into this headlong rush of emotions. Now, he simply abided by it.

Their last slaver had squirreled himself away in the undercity of the undercity, and by the time they all came up for air, it had gotten dark. Azzan looked around. He’d never lived in a city, so he’d never seen the lights of the mages as they lit the place during holidays. He’d thought, when he’d first arrived in Kirkwall, that he would finally have the chance to see what a city looked like when lit by the fires of magic. Then he’d learned how Kirkwall reacted to magic, and he wasn’t surprised when he found Kirkwall’s festive streets as dim and dark as those in the small towns his family had run through growing up. The cold wind whistled through the maze-like streets, bringing with it the tiniest touch of flurries. The miniscule tufts of white promised more in the hours to come.

Varric whistled. “Well. Guess we’re closer to Satinalia than we’d thought, huh?”

Fenris stepped up to stand beside Azzan, his face turned to the ribbons lining even Lowtown’s streets. The Hanged Man had decorated itself in red and yellow, symbols of the Fool Viscount, who would almost undoubtedly come to dine inside its walls before the end of the day. It couldn’t be the first time Fenris had seen the decorations, yet it seemed almost like it was.

“Well, I’m off,” Varric said, waving good-bye. A moment later, Anders did the same, claiming a need to check on the patients in his clinic.

It left Azzan alone with Fenris. He took the walk slowly. He could say it was so that Fenris could take in the sights, but really it was so that he could. There was a wideness one usually didn’t see in Fenris’ gaze, his elven eyes larger than ever as he took in the sparkling baubles that hung from the entrance to Hightown. No one had stolen any yet, and the moonlight made the colored glass glisten like a rainbow. The effect was compounded with the snow, turning the tiny snatches of white into dim colors of their own. Fenris stared at the colored sky for a moment. “I never understood these trappings. What have they to do with the holiday? Why make a fool leader, even if only for a day?”

Azzan smiled. “To show the world still turns.” He passed beneath the glass bulbs, but when Fenris didn’t follow, he turned back. Fenris watched him. “Satinalia celebrates the continuance of life during what seems a slow death. It’s a rebirth of one’s self, in whatever form we wish. The masks represent who we will be, by our own choosing. The fool as leader not only recognizes life’s tenacity in bad times, but also the idea of the folly of our pasts. We can make better decisions in the future.”

Fenris’ face waffled between amazement and disbelief. “I thought it was an old tradition from Zazikel.”

Azzan shrugged. “Times change.”

One single, exasperated sigh later, and Fenris was back to staring at the glittering bulbs. They flashed beams of red and green and yellow lights down onto the street, turning the sidewalk into moving art. By morning, almost all of the bulbs would be gone, stolen and sold for modest gain. During their first year, Carver had taken a few and ignored Azzan’s lecture about honoring the holiday properly. “You like this holiday.”

“I do.” He hesitated, then dared say it. “In areas with larger Chantries, or in places considered holy, it’s customary to give gifts to loved ones. Friends and family. People who are precious to you.” He stepped back down to stand before Fenris. “That’s why I wanted to give you a gift. Because you are one of those people who is important to me. I know you don’t want a gift from me, and I accept that. And I didn’t do all this as just some way to give you something. But I do hope that what we’ve done tonight brings you some peace.”

Fenris looked at him. “It’s not you whom I don’t wish gifts from. It’s everyone. It’s not something I wish to involve myself in right now.” Right now? But no, it was enough to know Fenris hadn’t scorned him specifically. The rest he let pass.

The flurries grew thicker, even as they watched; when before only the barest hint of snow could be seen, now it came in ever-increasing patches. In Lowtown, the snow would turn to brown and black slush if it stuck, people walking through it to get to work even on the holiday, or to move to the festivities. Drunken revelers would kick and roll the snow with the mud beneath, and ones further into their drinks would turn the alleyway corners yellow before they went black. In Hightown, the snow would be swept and shoveled aside, but otherwise untouched; a beautiful mound of white over street and sky.

“I could, however,” Fenris suddenly said, his voice almost hesitant, “be persuaded to some company before the dawn.”

In the darkness, Fenris’ hair glowed yellow-orange in the glass’ lights. His eyes, darkened by his brow, still held a faint glimmer of moonlight in them. His lips parted slightly. A tuft of snow fell on one pointed ear, slowly dissolving to water and dripping off the tip. The space between them sat negligible. It would be simple, so simple, to lean down and take those lips with his.

Azzan backed away with a small smile. “All right. Your place or mine?”

Another hesitation. “If we could just walk?”

He blinked, then nodded. “Of course.” They turned toward Hightown, the steps already slick with melted snow. Their fingers touched. He pulled away, just enough to give Fenris his space, though his hand tingled with the urge to wrap around Fenris’ own. “Happy Satinalia, Fenris,” he said as they passed beneath the glass, the moonlight shimmering red over his gaze. Feeling more content than he had in months, he spoke the Satinalia blessing. “I wish you joy beyond the darkness.”

And he did. He wished Fenris every happiness. Especially when Fenris murmured the blessing back, his voice a whisper on the winter wind.


End file.
